GW Together Arc 0 Not At First Glance
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: What happens when the shields come down, the Perfect Soldier cracks and a messed up Shinigami tries to get his act together... A Heero and Duo fic, no fluff. Boy with boy.
1. Chapter 1

**Not At First Glance I**

Author: LoveyouHateyou  
Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: NC-15/M  
Pairings: Duo + Heero (1+2+1)  
Warnings: Occasional profanity - Duo can be so damn foul mouthed.  
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Especially Duo who is so wild and sweet, and Heero because he is such an awkward crank. All rights with their original owners.  
Spoilers: None.

_Summary: What happens when the shields come down. When the Perfect Soldier cracks, and messed-up Shinigami is caught out cold... Bittersweet. No fluff. The boys are surprised at what can be hidden behind skilfully built facades._

**xxx**

Usually the hangar is empty at this time of the day – late afternoon, the sun slanting golden beams through the large windows, myriads of glittering specks of dust dancing in the light. I go here for the stillness, to get away from the hassle of the training centre, and with Duo as my room mate there is not the remotest chance to get some rest at our quarters.

He never shuts up. How does he do it, talking without even stopping for breath or thinking? He always has something to natter about, but that has something to do with him finding the most stupid things interesting. He has no compunction to interrupt a training exercise to plonk himself into the grass by the roadside and admire some tiny bug walking up a stalk of grass. What a nutcase. And he keeps picking on me. I hate that.

We had rows. We had tussles, but though he is tough like old leather, he is not too strong, and I do not like hurting him. He can look so wounded, and it annoys me because I know he is using this to get off the hook. He can be surprisingly sly, but then, the way he grew up would have made him streetwise, like it or not.

He has scraped through the last examn – ballistics is not his forte, but then what is? I cannot count the times I told him to focus, sit down and stick his nose into the books, but the baka prefers to run off who knows where, even skips entire days, and if I let him have his way, he would hardly ever turn up in class. How embarrassing; he is in my team after all. But I will have to work with him, so here we go – our squad can only be as strong as the weakest member. He mocked me when I tried to explain yet again this morning; it annoyed me enough to call him names, he was trying to beat me up, so I walked away.

What else should I do? He is utterly incapable to restrain his temper. How could anyone be blind enough to pick him for a pilot? Because I held back, he got through my guard and landed a punch on my face, right cheekbone, very neat for someone who has neither brawns nor brains. It is throbbing and I bet it will turn black – I could have killed him. Fine, so I only walked away after he did a runner, braid whipping wildly about his back. I might have the room to myself tonight, but as yet, I do not want to find out. I will sit here for a while, run a few checks on Wing Zero, and go back when I can stomach facing him again.

**xxx**

Today I realised that I hate him. Such an arrogant asshole, who does he think he is? Not enough that he thinks he should be bossing me around all the fuckin' time, he does it in front of everyone and finds nothing wrong with it, like this mornin' in the cafeteria. I'm no kid, and I've seen my share of shit already. So here we go, I punched him, and now my knuckles hurt like hell and I can't hold the damn tools properly. Tools, yeah, to dig around in Deathscythe's innards. The hydraulics of its left foot were leaking, and I heard a little crunching noise in the gearbox that I'd like to check out.

I bet I know the thing inside out, and his damn machine, and all the others too. I can list every fuckin' part in my sleep, why else would the mechanics come to me when they can't find some fault or another? Paper exams aren't everyone's cuppa tea. I know my co-ordinates, I can handle the stupid guns alright, don't need to read tomes of print for this. My memory's good; I can learn by listening and watching and getting my hands dirty, like now, buried to the armpits in Deathscythe's gearbox. I like that, I don't have to sit my ass sore, I can use my hands and soak up the smell of oil and dust, the feel of smooth, cool metal against my skin, and it does get me off to know what makes the suits tick.

Man, figure that, Duo the street rat flying a Gundam – not in my wildest dreams… Sure there's some agenda behind all this, and one day I'll find out, but right now I'm glad to be here. And he? Mr Yuy Superman? So stuck up his neat little ass. He thinks he knows it all, but some day he'll choke on his own bloody silence. What haven't I tried to get him to string more than two grunts together? Perhaps even form a sentence that doesn't end in 'hn' or a sneer? I admit defeat, and I refuse to feel ashamed for he's plain hopeless. Tonight I'll be in for a thrashing for that welt I printed onto his pretty face – he looked so stunned, it was quite funny. Even worth it; I'll consider that later when I'm not busy. Well, perhaps he won't kill me, and everything else I can cope with. I'm tough.

It would be nice though if he'd not put me down all the time. Hell, yeah, he _is_ good, so damn thorough with everything he does, really reliable, and if he weren't such an asshole, I'd enjoy bein' in his team. As it is now, it can only mean trouble. I like watchin' him working out, all muscle and power, and so damn cool about himself. Well, he can be, but I try not to hang around in the gym when he is there: it would not be a nice contrast with me all pale 'n bony and always in a mess, and he smart 'n tidy, with his mop of glossy black hair and this great bod. Hey, I might not look that wonderful, but I got an eye for nice things – I've seen too many ugly ones already.

Here, I found it: a loose screw, a faulty washer and some leaked oil. Easy to mend, and Deathscythe will be as new. It makes my day, at least until he gives me the usual bawling out before goin' to bed, the swearing is my own, the rest is his: put your stuff away, baka, looks like a tip in here, do your fuckin' homework, have you eaten, and for heaven's sake, can't you shut up for five damn minutes?

I can't. Silence kills me; it scares me witless just as darkness does. And because he doesn't talk to me other than that, I annoy him. Anything's better than a dark, still room around me. He doesn't understand why I'm shivering under my sheets and insists on having the lights out and the shutters down. Then it is so black around me, a canvas for my nightmares, and I spend most of those hours trying to stay awake and not clatter my teeth. That's why I'm always tired, why sometimes I doze in class or don't bother going there in the first place. I catch up on sleep in Deathscythe's cabin, or in some corner in the locker room at the hangar, and sometimes in the meadows of the park that surrounds the centre. That is nice because I feel like melting away.

No point telling him, he wouldn't wanna hear it, and if he'd listen, he'd not grasp it. Right, that's it, I gotta go back for some food and hope he won't be around, or perhaps that he will be, I dunno what, and lately that's itched the hell outta me.

**xxx**

Now I will be blasted – Duo Maxwell working overtime. I know him by his stupid braid that is bouncing about his ass while he has his arms dug into the gearbox of Deathscythe, his skinny body a sliver of nothing in his oily overall. He should wash the thing, he is always filthy and does not even notice. I think his hair is the only thing he bothers to keep tidy. It has a nice shine and a pretty colour that reminds me of maple leaves in autumn.

He reminds me of… no, he just plain irritates me. Perhaps I should go now, he's blown it just by being here, and no, it is too late because he has heard my steps, he must have eyes at the back of his head and the senses of a fox, and he is wearing this silly grin. He cannot fool me though – I can see very well that his eyes stay dark, wary; he is probably worried about our little spat earlier on. As if I would bother hitting him back now; it is simply not worth it.

"Hey," he says uneasily, rubbing his hands on some rag. There's oil all over his arms; he keeps scrubbing as I walk towards him, and he steps back unthinkingly until he hits Deathscythe and trips on a crowbar he has dropped on the floor. He is a messy worker. He slips and is on his bum and up again in a flash, rubbing his hip.

"You hurt?" Did I say this? He is gaping at me as though he has seen a ghost. "Close your mouth, Maxwell, and answer me."

"What?" His grows still, well for a second at least, before he carries on scrubbing at his hands. He would need soap and hot water. The scouring to which he treats his skin leaves red streaks on the inside of his lower arms, he really should stop this now.

"Give me that." I only grab the rag, but he jerks aside as if I had stung him, and his fist flies towards me before I know why, and then I catch his wrist and bring him to his knees with a hard twist. Winded with pain, he says nothing but struggles madly. "Stop it! What is it with you, gone completely nuts now or what?" I toss the rag into his lap, and then I see the dark marks my fingers are making already on his white skin, and cannot help glancing over those streaks.

Scars.

He tugs. I let go. He is up and away flying, a scared rabbit could not run faster, seeking refuge behind the foot of Deathscythe he has been busy mending, and he grabs the crowbar for good measure. What has he planned, hit me over the head with the thing? Those scars look a good deal like cuts, all the way from his wrists to the crook of his elbows. "Maxwell?"

"Piss off," he snarls softly, eyes narrow and hard, all childishness suddenly gone from his features.

"I wanted a break."

"I'll give you one if you touch me again." He taps the tool into the palm of his thin hand.

"You were skinning yourself with that rag. Try washing."

He does not take it well, but I did not expect his eyes to fill up one of a sudden. And for once, he says nothing but begins to gather his tools into the box he keeps in Deathscythe's cabin. What have I done? I shut him up. He is quiet, he is closed-up, and I will be damned but it feels…

Wrong.

**xxx**

I do hate him. I hate his guts, his face, his fuckin' bloody know-it-all attitude. My scars are none of his business. My life isn't. And those eyes he gives me make me feel all naked. I hate it, hate him, to hell with him. Why doesn't he fuckin' go away now?

"Duo?"

Ouch. We do not use given names, we are on formal terms, he and I. Why does he stare at me like that, have I grown a second head or what? I can feel my stupid eyes water and he keeps staring, his face going all… soft. Hell, yeah, so I'm a crybaby, so piss off, Yuy, I don't need your pity.

"Don't jump at me now, hear me?"

He comes closer, a bit reluctant. He has this rattled expression in his face, so what is it now?

"Whatcha want? I'll be gone in a sec, then you can have your peace 'n quiet." He is now so close that I can smell him, a fresh earthy scent, with a hint of soap. He makes me feel filthy because he is always so clean. Perhaps I should ask to move rooms; we just don't work out together and we have to keep it reasonable for the sake of the squad.

"Have you finished already?" He is looking on as I light a cigarette. I'm waiting for a nasty comment, and nothing happens, he doesn't even grace me with his death glare. Now I got it: he is ill. "Perhaps I could help?" he offers.

The cigarette drops from my mouth to the ground, and for a heartbeat or two, I'm too boggled to pick it up, but then I do and scramble back to form. He's seen enough of me, time to get back to the game; him prying is the last thing I need. "I'm done, and thanks."

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." No, I won't admit that he scared me shitless with that single touch to my arm.

"Then," he closes in and his eyes turn all steely again as he stretches out his arm, palm turned up, "let me see your arm."

Damn.

His fingers clasp round my wrist, no point struggling for he can easily hold me up dangling. He lifts my arm and shoves up the sleeve of the overall, his touch gliding roughly over my skin. Now where is his comment, something either scathing or woolly? I'm waiting, bracin' myself while I manage to glare at his face that has darkened like it does when he's really cross, and he bites his lip so much it'll bleed in a moment.

**xxx**

Cuts. Someone has sliced Duo's arms open. He is staring at me wide-eyed, his face hard and suddenly so much older than his years. I have never seen him like this before; it does not suit him, it is not him at all. The baka is quiet, the flurry gone, the grin wiped off, all this is fine. But his eyes have gone sullen, too. I never realised how much light they hold when he is his usual silly self. Now they are full of shadows that I cannot read, and I know pity is the last thing he wants.

"Have you eaten anything?" is all I can think of. I have not seen him since this morning when he ran off without breakfast, after he punched me and before I could drag him off to class.

"Don't mother me, Yuy," he says, surprisingly softly. "I'm fine."

Grown up Duo Maxwell? He tugs at his arm, and I let him withdraw from my grip. His wrist felt so small in my hand that I was afraid for a moment to crush it, but I have seen him really battered and know he is tough. He does not look it though, with his narrow frame and lanky limbs.

"And stop staring," he snaps.

I am sure I did not stare. He turns his back and carries on rummaging through his toolbox until he is content that he has sorted it well enough, bangs it shut and shoves it along to the lift up to the entry hatch of the great machine.

Well. Perhaps a head-on is the best approach here. "Who did this to you?" He pretends not to hear, heaves the box onto the metal platform – what on earth does he keep in there that makes it so heavy? But then he likes to hoard things: food under his bed, for example, and bits and pieces he picks up outside, such as feathers, some dried stalks of grass, and so on. Childish things, toys. Maybe he has some of them in the toolbox too. "Duo? Who did it?"

"I did." He tosses his braid, for which he will endure any amount of teasing, back over his shoulder and climbs onto the platform. I know a run when I see one, and follow him before he can press the up-button. "Look, Yuy," he says, slightly unnerved and hiding behind his bangs, "I'm sorry for hittin' you. You can batter me later if you must, just let me finish here and gimme a break, yeah?"

"Why?"

He crosses his arms and stares down at my feet. The platform rises swiftly, swaying on its framework of steel girders. It always makes me a bit giddy, and I grab the handrail. That gets him to look at me, questioningly, a tiny smile on his lips. He never stays serious for long, thank goodness, and this is much more like him. Is he relieved that I am afraid of heights? I have to control this better.

"You really wanna know?" The platform thumps to a bumpy halt at the hatch, and he uses both hands to haul up his box. I can see his arms strain and the veins at his neck bulge, but he makes it all up with energy as he puffs and manhandles the thing over the knee-high threshold and dumps it on the floor inside.

"Yeah," I say to his back. For a moment, his bottom sticks up in the air as he bends over to latch the box in place just beyond the door, next to the fire extinguisher. He may be thin, but he has shape – damn, I am not thinking this rubbish now.

"What's it to you?" he shoots over his shoulder.

He has me baffled. I am not used to being answered back, let alone with another question. What can I say? The truth is that I do not know, but I am aching to find out, to do something, perhaps to soften what I said to him this morning and that suddenly begins to weigh me down. I realise with a start that my idea of Duo Maxwell has taken quite a knock, and I like things to be right, controllable, clear. So maybe that is it, but I cannot tell him this. "We're team mates, aren't we?"

"And?" He straightens, expertly battens down the hatch – much quicker than I could do it – and turns to meet my eyes. He is smiling, not his usual inane grin, but a real smile, even though it is cautious and perhaps a bit cool. "You see," he says quietly, "you're right with a lot of the stuff you're yellin' at me all the time."

The height is making me dizzy; I cling to the railing a bit harder.

He does not smile this time but adds, "And I'm just some fool who's had some pot luck to be here."

He is no fool. He hates lessons because he has to sit still and listen, because he drops off sometimes and tends to miss deadlines, but he is no fool, I know that because he has backed me up during a few missions. He knows perfectly well what he is doing once he is harnessed to his Gundam; he would rather die than let off, and the first time I saw him change into battle mode he truly shocked me. For I discovered that in battle, he is cruel. He takes pleasure in killing.

"So here goes," he holds my gaze, his eyes strange, wide and still, "I meant to apologise and tell you that I'm goin' to ask to change rooms so I'm outta your hair."

**xxx**

Now I don't understand him at all anymore. The Perfect Soldier insisted I stay – how's that for luck? He didn't ask again about the cuts, but his entire attitude towards me has changed. I could get used to this. Still, what he did before does hurt for I'm no different now, so why wasn't I worth his while before he saw my arms? I suspect it's pity and I hate that. Like, hate, want – what do I want? Hell, yeah, I'm bein' my usual messed-up self.

He got me dinner from the cafeteria and I ate it to stop him pestering me. Predictably, I brought it all up again with my head over the toilet bowl, the shower running so he didn't hear me. I had a fag after that, and now I'm sittin' here on the loo and wait until the stink of tobacco smoke goes away. It sucks 'cos I'm bushed.

Sure as hell, he has to knock the damn door. "Duo? Are you in there?" I wish he'd go back to using my surname. It makes me fuzzy and uneasy if he talks so familiar to me, but it also warms me inside. "Hey, Maxwell! You alright?" Bingo, back to formal, but he sounds… concerned. I'll be blasted. He can be nice?

"Hell, yeah."

"Come out. I know you're smoking, so don't bother hanging around. I need the bathroom."

Flat impatience. He manages to convey both with his tone, and I picture his stance now, arms crossed over his chest, legs braced, head thrust forward and his eyes gleaming up from behind raven bangs. He has blue eyes. Dark blue, like a midnight sky, without stars or expression, and his hair is thick and shiny. Sometimes I wonder how it would feel, cool or warm, soft or wiry. I like nice things, and his hair looks nice. Maybe he is nice.

"Man, Duo, come out of there already!"

Right, here we go. I wash my hands and open the door, ducking my head against the barrage he will have ready for me, but he just lays his hand on my shoulder and seeks my glance. "You 'kay?"

Silence can hurt my ears. I know that now. It hurt my brain too, so much it drained away and left me speechless. Me! And then his touch on my skin registers with my senses and sends them racing, pulse, breathing, sweating all in overdrive. I'm ready to faint.

He grabs both my upper arms and gives me a little shake. "Duo?"

I have an echo in my head that sings my name in his voice, and I wanna laugh and hop around; instead I just slip down against the wall.

"Damn," he gasps, his eyes going wide.

And then he scoops me up and carries me to my bed where he sets me down as though I could break. For a moment, he seems lost, staring down at me with unconcealed worry. "I'm going to call the medical unit," he then says firmly and turns towards the intercom console by the door, but I catch his arm.

"No! I'm just tired, if they think I don't make it they'll throw me outta here, please don't ring anyone, it'll pass, please!" One long, breathless string of words is about all I can manage, I feel like jelly, now pull yourself together, baka, and stop this act.

He bites his lip, his eyes lingering on my hand on his arm, a chalky contrast to the pale gold of his perfect hide. I let my arm drop and hide it under my sheets. "Please, don't call," I say, unable to sound anything but exhausted. I'm so bloody knackered, perhaps I really shouldn't be here; I could be like that on a mission, and then what, a danger to the others who rely on me… but back to the streets of L2?

I'd rather die.

**xxx**

Duo has gone all small and quiet, shrunk like a mouse, and utterly dejected behind his broad, pleading grin. I think I begin to figure him out, now that he is probably too weak to cling to his usual silly act. It is an act. Great conclusion, Yuy, and about time, it took a lot to get that into your hard head. You even remember to leave the emergency light on that you had fused so you could sleep in total darkness. He complained a few times back then and gave up when you brushed him off, calling him ridiculous for being afraid of the dark. The others picked on him for a while after that. He gets picked on quite a lot, for his braid, for my teasing, for whatever comes in handy. He always seemed to just shrug it off with a laugh, and sometimes with a fight. He can be vicious when the street kid comes through. Now I begin to wonder.

Now, sitting here by his bedside, I wonder what else I might find behind the scars, his fear of darkness and his obsessive hoarding of food. Should have given it some thought sooner, after all we have been room mates and a team for some time now, ne? A good leader has an eye for detail, that includes the people he wants to lead, and I have not only been blind and hardnosed, worse than that, I deliberately closed my eyes. I am at fault, and I dislike it.

He just passed out on me after stumbling out of the bathroom, and when I carried him to his bed, he was as light as a feather, as though he had starved for weeks. His braid has unravelled, and his hair splays around his head and shoulders in a copper halo. He looks strange like this, with a frailty about him that I find disturbing to say the least. His skin is pale, almost transparent, he has freckles on his nose and cheeks, and his features are rather sharp and pinched. To judge from his breathing, he is asleep, and I make a point of catching up, studying every detail of him and burn it to memory. I will never again miss the signs, that I have sworn to myself, because I owe it to my team mate, to my colleague, the one who I expect to die for me if need must be, and for whom I would do the same.

He rarely sleeps quietly, and he is whimpering now, his hands groping restlessly over the sheets, while he keeps turning his head in the pillows. He is back to talking, but it does not sound funny what he has to say in his dreams; it drives icy shudders down my back. How could I miss all this? Why did I not know? What can I do now without alarming everyone else and get him thrown out?

Unthinkingly, I reach out to seize one of his spiderthin hands and enfold it in my grip.

He stills. Instantly.

He has oil under his fingernails and embedded in the fine creases of his skin; Duo Maxwell in a hurry includes him skimping on cleanliness. There are things he will have to learn, like it or not, but right now, I am relieved that I can feel his pulse against my thumb. How strange, but I feel calmer too for holding his hand.

His hair is incredibly smooth to the touch. I could not resist weaving my fingers through the copper flood, so impossibly long and wavy for a boy. He has nothing girlish about him though, his body is all sinewy and angular and his face almost harsh when it is not lit by a smile or a grin. So I am sitting here, the textbook I was trying to read idly in my lap, and cannot stop sliding my fingers through the shiny locks he is so proud of. If he were awake, he would fight me off tooth and nail, like anyone who tries to touch his precious braid. But now he cannot fight, he is out cold, helpless, silent, and I take pleasure in touching his hair. It is warm and strong, but soft too, and somehow this is soothing me in a way that is very strange.

**xxx**

Heero's hand in my hair. Keep your breathing down, baka, don't let him realise you've woken up a while ago – no one touches me without me knowing, sensing it; call it instinct if you like. It has helped me to survive in the streets of L2, and perhaps I sleep while waking. What a load of bollocks…

Oh, it feels so good. Heero Yuy the Professional Ice-lump slowly raking through my hair, over and again; he doesn't seem to tire of it. I'm starved for touch, but why his? Hilde is nice 'n warm, too. She gave me comfort and compassion without pity the first bit of warmth in my life after the Church massacre. But it was always stolen moments for we never had time for anything but war, we still don't.

With him I've been living for what seems a lifetime, through thick and thin, training and battle, missions and school, and yet I know nothing about him, and the other way round. Still, he feels familiar even though he keeps pissing me off and putting me down all the fuckin' time.

What has gotten into him now? My head's spinning, I'm gonna be sick, and then he's gonna stop-

**xxx**

The ba… Duo insisted on getting up by himself and promptly would have fallen over had I not caught him, his hair cascading over my shoulders – he is a bit taller than me – and my arms as I helped him to the bathroom. He was convulsing already by the time we got there, and I was quick enough to gather his hair before he knelt down, head over the loo, to spit bile and blood, clasping the rim with whiteknuckled hands.

I left him alone, sitting on my heels by his side, holding his hair in my hands while he was puking his guts out. He brought up nothing in the way of food, and I have an idea or two why he had fainted earlier tonight. This is no good. He is damaged, I knew that much because no one normal behaves like Duo Maxwell, but this is worse than I realised. He is truly good at hiding, I will give him that, and I dread what else he is trying to bury where no one can find it.

He has stopped retching, though he is still down and heaving, elbows sticking up to either side of his back. I can count his ribs, the knuckles of his spine, and his hip bones are sharp arches under taut skin. His shorts are riding low but there is hardly a rounding of flesh; he has no reserves at all. Right, Yuy, here is your mission to make up for stupidity and hype – getting your team mate into shape so he will be capable to back you up when you are fighting. It feels good to have him guarding you, you do not really want anyone else, and this is a professional opinion no less, no more.

**xxx**

Hell, why does Heero make such a face now? I said thank you for dinner he insisted on getting for me from the cafeteria, and told him that I'd move rooms. "Wu's happy enough," I said lightly, "so I'll move my stuff tomorrow mornin'."

He has been sitting on the sofa in silence, his beloved laptop by his side, his hands dangling between his knees as he stares at the television screen. I bet he sees nothing. He is thinking. I am lounging on the floor, with a textbook I find too boring to read. So I watch him and can tell from his face, don't ask how, it somehow shows. Like the cogs in a Gundam; you know they're whirring madly when the whole thing is on even if you can't see them under the smooth metal plating. That, for me, sums him up.

"I'll be nice 'n quiet in your room," I try to make light.

"Our room. Too quiet perhaps," he says flatly, not stirring, not taking his eyes off the stupid screen. I sure start hearing things now, something's fucked with my head. So I light a cigarette, fumble to squeeze it out again as I remember where I am, and am gobsmacked when he leans over, picks the thing from my hand and lights it, then shoves it between my lips. He looks cool with a cigarette.

He should scold me for smoking. I have a job not to choke on a mouthful of smoke.

"So what about those scars?" he asks, leaning back, his eyes fixing on me. I like their colour and wonder what they hide behind their still surface. "Those cuts on your arms?"

Sod those, why can't he let off? "Whatcha mean?"

"Why did you do it?"

**xxx**

Duo does not like this one bit. He is fidgeting with the packet of cigarettes, the lighter, a stray strand of his hair, finally finds nothing else to fiddle with and looks up at me. Big, curious eyes the colour of dusk, somewhere between grey and a purplish blue. "What?"

Patience is probably the hardest virtue of all. "Why did you cut yourself?"

"You really wanna know?"

Watch out, he is about to get spooked the way he tries to squirm out of this, or is he? Scrutinising, for once weighing every word, though a smile settles on his face. "Yes."

"Why's that?"

This time, he does not catch me out. "Because I'm supposed to lead our team. I need to understand what's going on."

A spark of irony gleams in his eyes. "Is that it?"

What can I say? It is part of whatever is bugging me, and I have not figured out the other part yet. He does not expect an answer but rolls the cigarette between his bony fingers, smoke escaping lazily from his nose and mouth. "Then I suggest a deal," he says, still smiling, but his eyes darken a little. I cannot read them.

"Go on." Sometimes people's ideas say more about them than their words.

"You'll stick by it if you agree?"

How would I know unless he gets on with it and explains what the stakes are. "Hn." Not quite an answer, not quite fair because it is non-committal, keeping my options open, but he makes me wary.

"Then… um… I dunno…" He shifts and curls up into a crouch, arms round his knees, head ducked as he locks gaze with me.

"C'mon now," I urge him, patience wearing thin. Perhaps I am not so virtous after all.

He draws a deep breath and gives me a doubtful glance before spluttering, "If I tell you, I get to touch your hair." He turns splashing red the instant he says it, but stands his ground and keeps staring his small challenge at me.

Hair. I remember the feel of his locks sliding through my fingers and say, "My hair? Why?"

He shrugs, a strange mix of mistrust and resignation shading his gaze. "'Cos you touched mine? I always wake when someone touches me. So?"

Damn him. "No."

"No you won't let me? No you don't wanna know anymore?" He sounds unsurprised, gets up and disappears into the kitchen to make coffee. He needs his fix of caffeine if nothing else is at hand.

He does not understand. Yes, I would let him; yes, I want to know. Everything. And no, I do not want to trade like this.

**xxx**

Heero is a bad liar. I could see in his eyes that he wanted it. To hell with him.

**xxx**

Duo's things fit into one holdall and a large box that used to house wing spares no less. He must have swiped box and contents from the store; it is a skill he has tuned to perfection, as well as getting packed up and leaving within minutes like any good soldier. Wufei picks him up, and I hear them talk as they march down the hallway, Duo laughing freely at some of Wu's dry remarks.

It feels strange to have the room all to myself, sparse and clean, his corner tidy, his bed made for once. I should feel glad, relieved, and for a while it is just that. When he does not turn up for afternoon class, I think I am annoyed, but it is something else too. I am worried, right, can hardly wait for the end of the lecture before bursting out of the seminar room and heading for the hangar, his first place of choice to spend time when he skips school. I think he keeps getting away with it because the mechanics let him do their job, and he does it with glee.

Certain aspects of Duo Maxwell are conveniently predictable. He is pressurewashing Deathscythe, boy with toy. Small boy with giant toy, it's all the same. The nozzle on full makes a nice rainbow in the late sun, and as sure as I watch him, he is dreaming away time trying to give the band of colours a different angle and shape. He likes pretty things, anything colourful and shiny, and he soaks up impressions with a hunger that sometimes is overwhelming. He is hungry in many ways, for touch, for warmth, for respect. For beauty and for affection, well, and for food that he collects but does not eat and ends up storing where he forgets it.

"Duo?"

He nearly drops the hose, but then he just waves and smiles. "Hey, soldier. Whatcha want?"

I am not willing to tell him until he scrambles off the platform, rolls up the hose and lights a cigarette. "Does your deal still stand?" I ask, perhaps a bit gruffer than intended.

He stares at me through a puff of smoke to find out whether I am mocking him, then tries to wipe his hands dry on his soaking overall. His gaze is way too guarded for Duo, his smile cooling into something vague, calculating. Watch out. "The stakes have upped," he finally murmurs around his fag.

I do need to know more about him, understand him better, after all, it is my duty to take care of my team. "Upped how?"

He steps closer until he intrudes squarely into my space, and looks down at me nervously as he lets out a long, tense breath. "I get to hug you."

Absolutely not, what does the baka think? I hate being touched, people pressing close, it gives me the creeps, and what he wants... he has weird ideas and needs to be put into his place, not indulged. And I hear myself say, "Whatever."

He freezes, stares, and suddenly explodes into motion, throws his arms round my shoulders and clings to me, his chin digging into my shoulder, his entire being heaving, trembling, moulding against me like a drowning man to a log. I do not know what to do; pry him off, shake him off, nudge him back to reality? In the end, I lay my hands on his waist. "Your half of the bargain now," I remind him, and he slackens.

He has blushed a fiery tomato red, and it suits him because it makes him look fresh and easy. "I slashed my arms 'cos I wanted to die," he says dryly.

I gathered that much. "When was that?"

"After the massacre at Maxwell Church."

Ah. I should have figured this; now who is the baka…

"Everyone I loved was gone. So I wanted to be dead as well." He pauses, flicking some ash onto the concrete floor of the hangar. "But then I decided I'd rather not snuff it, tied some rags round my arms and got picked up by the nice people here. That's how I ended up a wing pilot." His smile does not waver, therefore I know it is false. What does it cost him to keep up appearances? "Seemed a better deal to kill instead of conking out. So that's what I do now. I kill." He pauses, flashing me a uneasy glance. "You're right," he says, "I'm a baka."

**xxx**

Heero blows me clean outta the water.

"I had to re-evaluate that," he tells me in this sober, level way of his, his eyes guarded, expression carefully blank. Nothing unusual here then, and yet... he let me hug him. Damn, and did he feel just great; he made me all warm and fuzzy inside, well, and without until I got worried he might notice. I don't care 'bout where warmth comes from, and right now it happens to radiate from a guy, from stuck-up-his-ass Heero Yuy, Perfect Soldier and drool of the school. I've learned early in life not to be picky and keep my options as wide open as possible, so whether gal or guy doesn't really matter to me. Problem is, you just never know whether whoever takes your fancy does appreciate this. Most folk don't. But he didn't struggle, he didn't look disgusted, he just...

He keeps looking at me. "Our room's too quiet. I'd like you to move back in."

Our room. It's his damn room, and this is a bit fast - why should I? "I'm fine where I am, and it's better for everyone. Wufei's got no problem, we get along fine."

"I have spoken with him. He has shifted your things already."

"Shifted my… I didn't say yes!"

"I didn't ask."

Great. He gave an order, that means he considers this his mission, and now he's glaring at me, trying to face me down. He felt so damn good in my arms, and he did not struggle one bit. Instead, he simply decided for me that my place is in his damn room, and he'll probably try to educate me into an example for all future Gundam pilots – look what can be done with a bit of work, even Duo Maxwell made it. Fuck that. But the way he is staring, if I go off ranting now, that'll be it.

Whatever is behind all this, I know that's not what I want.

What is it I want? What does he want? Guess we'll have to figure this out.

**xxx END Chapter 1 xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Not At First Glance II**

Author: LoveyouHateyou  
Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: NC-15/M  
Pairings: Duo + Heero (2+1+2)  
Warnings: Swearing. Duo at least is doing quite a bit of this, he just can't help it. References to yaoi, of course.  
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Especially Duo who is clearly mad, and Heero who can be so tender. All rights with their original owners.  
Spoilers: None.

_Summary: What happens when the shields come down: the world is full of surprises for Heero in particular, and Duo can be quite an armful._

**xxx**

What is it with me? Duo has me unsettled and I wonder whether he knows it; he may be superficial most of the time but now that I know what to look for, I catch him observing, watching from behind his silly laugh and bright eyes. He has pretty eyes. No, wrong, they are beautiful, colour changing like the sea, or the sky during a storm. If he knew that he is my inspiration for poetry, I would be sport.

He still annoys me for if I somehow expected that all of a sudden the world had changed and this change was to include Duo Maxwell reformed, I was sorely mistaken. He is as messy and undisciplined as ever, and the initial rush of warmth is wearing off. I did plan on being more patient, gods help me, but he is not making it easy. Nothing is ever easy with Duo.

For some reason, I find it soothing to watch him eat. Not that it is a nice sight, with him stuffing his face in a hurry and gulping down a coke or two - just to keep him hyper, I suppose - but at least I know he has filled his stomach and can handle himself. I have not had another opportunity to touch his hair again, and boy, I am itching to do just that.

"Clear the dishes," I growl over my shoulder. No need to see him rushing up and out without looking back, I just know he needs reminding. Those last few weeks, after I moved him back into our room, have been an eye opener. I learned things about him that fascinate me, and things about myself that have me stunned.

I like him around.

How is that for a change? I want silence and go out of my way to hear his relentless chattering, need a break and go sparring with him, want to weave my fingers through his hair and...

What should I do about this?

**xxx**

Heero gives me the eye. Okay, I will clear the damn dishes, and I am makin' a fuckin' hard effort to be more tidy and wash and all this. I'll be blasted if he isn't sorta motherin' me, and all I want is to bowl him over and... oh, well, that is somethingI shouldn't even be thinking – he might pry open my brain with this glare of his, and then I'm toast.

He shouldn't be prancing around with nothing on but his shorts. It bothers me. Hell, yeah, it bothers me lots; my sheets get sticky at night an' the whole shit's going on my nerves. I've not gone looking for this, but how can I stop dreams? And I can't deny them, they pounce at me and they're much better than my usual nightmares, stuff him.

"Duo, get your clothes washed, will you?"

He's wearing thin, though he's made an effort to be patient, but then so have I. We're still grating, there's no getting away from it, we're just way too different, and how could a few weeks of confusion change a lifetime of habits good 'n bad.

He doesn't even bother to stop typing as he goes on, "And remember there's a seminar this afternoon. Don't oversleep."

Not 'try to be there', or 'should I fetch you'. No, he orders me around. 'Do this, do that, move your ass, shut up...' Whoah, he hasn't said that for a while; not since I had the good grace to collapse in fronta him if I'm thinking about it. It still pisses me off to think he's asked Wu to shove me back out, like some parcel to be passed around, but I do like hanging about where he is, so I swallow my pride on that one. Let him lead for now and watch where he's taking us. Me and himself.

"Yeah, yeah, what else?"

"Do your hair. You look like a scarecrow."

That gets me. "Man, Yuy, ain't I ever gonna be good enough for you?" And hell will freeze over that instant because he stops hammering about on his bloody laptop and gives me another eyeful. He looks... shocked. Yeah. "Whatcha starin' at now?"

He sets the machine aside on the floor and rises, his eyes never leaving me, his face dark, mouth hard and unsmiling. I reckon I asked for it, and he's going to whack me now. Ouch. I have the wall to my back and would much rather melt through it, like folk in those silly old SciFi flicks, but of course it's not happening. What does happen is his hand reaching up and touching... almost. Stopping short from touching, hovering over my braid before he drops his arm and says, matter-of-factly, "I could not ask for a better partner."

**xxx**

Duo is thrown now, his eyes growing huge, his smile as well, from ear to ear, freckles dancing on his nose. I am unable to return it, instead try to hide my relief. Why can I not be easier with such things, like him who never bothers to hold back with how he feels? It annoys me, as always.

"Now get going, will you?" I say gruffly. "You're a great pilot but rubbish with timekeeping."

His smile just drops, extinguished, wiped out, and I realise something new and stunning: I can play him like a piano. I never had anyone respond to me so readily, so... depending on what mood I show if any. There cannot be many reasons for this, and the ones I can imagine are all the wrong ones. Despite myself, it makes me tingle. "Hell, yeah," he all but whispers and pushes away from the wall. "I am trash alright."

I am in his path, but he does make no motion to sidestep me; I do not see why I should budge. Yet suddenly I want his smile back, if I only knew how, but thinking was not involved when I lean into him, grab his shoulder and feel his bony frame drape against me for a breathless moment. His eyes are nearly popping from his face, his lips parted in a soundless 'oh'; for all it is worth, he looks as though he would be kissing me any moment.

All I can feel is wonder, and that shocks me once it seeps through to my mind. I remember sharply how his hair felt between my fingers, how light he was in my arms, and how he clung to me in this embrace he had haggled out of me. There is no getting away from it: he felt good.

What am I supposed to do now?

**xxx**

Heero looks a bit lost, his eyes downcast, lips pale. He needs help now, ne? So I'm gonna give it to him. "Heero?"

"Hn."

His hand heavily on my shoulder, the Perfect Soldier makes no move whatsoever. He is frozen to the spot. So I do what seems logical and simple. He closes his eyes when my lips touch his. He refuses to witness what he probably classes as his defeat, and I will be decked any second, right?

His hand slides down my arm and comes to rest on my wrist, his fingers pressing a little into my flesh, against my pulse. "What is this?" he murmurs, bewildered.

"My hand," I offer nervously, trying not to blurt out 'my soul, stupid, my heart, my everthing.' He has hit me hard, and I bet he doesn't even realise.

He looks up at me, searching my face, biting his lip. "I know that."

"Then why d'you ask?" My damn tongue, sharp and way too quick for my thinking, as always.

He drops my hand and steps back onto familiar territory, anger flashing in his eyes, a flush on his cheeks that deepens as he probably analyses and finds he has lost his composure, his upper hand, his oh-so precious cool. Serves him bloody right for once, though it wasn't entirely my plan, and he's never going to admit it. Still, I'm not gonna complain about the way this goes.

Whatever gave me the nerve to go after him that moment, before he could find time for a nasty retort? To wrap my hands boldly round the back of his neck and pull him into another kiss, a proper one this time, long and deep and wet, with smacking little noises and all. Kiss the Perfect Soldier and die sweetly, Shinigami. I hate his guts, ne? But he is a damn good kisser. He might be startled, yet he tangles back, even now trying to keep the lead, to hang on without accepting he's been taken unawares.

Oh, I'd like that very much, thinking about it, the stuff I've been dreamin' about recently does include takin' him alright.

Wonder what he'd say 'bout that.

**xxx**

Duo is always good for a surprise, and he caught me out big time. He has a strange gleam in his eyes, there is no shyness about him, and here I almost thought I would spook him. Does he swing this way? And what is it with me? Have we merely been too close for too long? I heard about these things, but they should not happen to Perfect Soldiers, right?

He has the boldness to cup my face between his thin hands and hover over me, the tip of his nose touching mine lightly, his breath mingling with mine. I have to tilt my head back somewhat because he is that annoying tad taller, and yes, it does seem to amuse him for I can spot the sparks dancing in his eyes as he stares into mine.

"Yuy, you don't know whatcha doin'."

Now he is so right, but there is the slightest twang of worry to his light tone. "Whatever." Can I not do better? For some reason, my mind does not work straight right now.

His voice softens, like his gaze, his entire being. "Whatcha want, huh?"

If I knew that, I would be better off. I would be in control.

"Want this?" His eyes glaze over as he dares to plant another kiss on my mouth, but he keeps them open, watching me like a hawk, slightly greedy, and deep down a bit uneasy, but his kiss floods me with warmth and confusion.

"No? Then tell me to stop it," he pants softly, breaking away reluctantly. Instead, my arms end up round his waist, my hands on his rear and fishing for the end of his braid. Unforgivable; I have lost my bearings, and worse, I like it...

"Stop it," I mumble, unprepared for what happens next: he bursts away, stumbles against the wall and bounces back the same instant, whizzing past me and out of the door that slams shut behind him.

Why did I say that? Why do I have to hurt him?

There are not many things that would scare me. I now have to include Duo in this category, and not only when he is in battle mode.

**xxx**

Heero Yuy sucks. Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained, or somethin' like that usually works for me. Sometimes it falls down though, this being one o'them. He thrashed me big time by saying two fuckin' words, and he didn't even have to raise his voice. Hell, it hurts: where he's been a prat before he's now really getting me. It was a mistake to move back in with him, yeah, yeah, shoulda known, blah blah, and now I'm on the run from him, from myself. The hangar will do just fine as a refuge. It's my hide-out.

Delving into Deathscythe helps, diggin' into its innards is like creeping away from my own. It's such a fine day outside, I've left the hangar gates open for the sun to shine into the dusky hall and it's doing me the favour nicely.

If only I weren't such a silly sucker for a bit of kindness. I don't need it, made my way without it alright, I'm tough enough to cope, so what? Heero Yuy is not that special, is he? True, he hasn't graced anyone with his particular attention before, not to my knowledge and I'm pretty good at observing, but I'm his team mate after all, so it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't. So get a life, boy.

I'll have to climb into the machine to get to the hydraulics pump for the left leg that I meant to check over. The mechanics come askin' me to help when that kinda job's on the books 'cos I'm so thin I can slip into places they can't reach without dismantling a good deal of armour plating and other parts. They don't care 'bout school anymore than I do, and look, they know their stuff.

The plating feels cool and smooth; I always imagine his hair feeling just like that – it has this bluish gloss, like burnished steel. Oh man, focus now, loosen this bolt, take washer off, find lever for pressure valve, watch gauge go to zilch... It wouldn't do to get shot at with pressurised hyd liquid, it burns like hell on your skin and when it gets into your eyes. It's almost there, so I give the tap on the tank an impatient twist.

Whack.

**xxx**

I knew Duo would not turn up, not after storming off in a huff. He is not going to get away with skipping class, however. We are a team; he needs to grasp that I want to rely on him. That I do. Need him. So I walk from the Training Centre through the summery park to the field with the launch pads and the hangar.

There is this rumbling and clatter of heavy stuff falling in the hall – gate wide open, that can only mean he is here, don't I know him rather well...

I can smell the reek of blood before I see it, spattered all over the concrete at the foot of Deathscythe. And there he lies like a broken doll among scattered tools and parts; the raised platform of the maintenance lift has a dent in its bannister – it is not difficult to guess that he has plummeted from there onto the hard floor deep below. He is sprawled in a spreading pool of his own congealing blood, engine oil and hyd liquid, and he does not respond when I pull up his eyelid. His braid is caked with blood, and he lies so very still, his limbs twisted at strange angles.

I thought I was yelling into the intercom console, but all I manage is a croaking noise, "Paramedics to the hangar, now!" Pilot down. How often have we said, heard this during battle? Why does it mean something very different now? Why does it burn through me with a force that nearly chokes me? Why can't I control my shaking hands?

I do not dare moving him but know where I can touch him and where not, so I stroke his back, his braid, one of his arms that seems sound, and a tiny whimper floats from his open lips as I keep chanting, "Hang on in there, Duo. Hang on, for heaven's sake. I need my partner."

**xxx**

"Duo? Hey, Maxwell, open your eyes!"

Heero Yuy cannot help barking commands at me. I'm his scratchtoy. My head hurts, and I wish he'd leave me the fuck alone. There is so much noise around me, it is pounding in my temples as something clatters, blackness falls, a rain of coldness and steel batters me, I'm tumbling and falling and then the light's out. No, really out, I can't see even as I try to drag my eyes open 'cos he's ordering me around again. Okay, he's my team leader after all, so I better... oh, that hurt, burns, hell what happened?

"Seems you didn't wait for the pressure to go down entirely." He sounds disapproving. So now I'm no good at that either. "It could have happened to anyone though," he goes on. Did he say this? "Apparently the gauge was faulty. I didn't think you'd make such a mistake anyway."

I wouldn't!

"That's what I just said." His hand alights on my brow to wipe away sweat and damp hair, a sparse gesture but knowing Heero Yuy I can place it – it's mindboggling and my head sure is about to explode. "Because you're the best at this kind of work."

Acknowledgement, from him. I must have died and gone to Heaven.

And suddenly his face hovers above mine, his eyes dark and narrow with something damn close to pain, his breath puffing against my mouth. "You idiot," he chokes. "You fell all the way from the platform, a storey above the ground, all your damn tools raining down on top of you, what were you doing? The paramedics said you must have been lying in your blood for a couple of hours before I found you, and lucky I wanted to fetch your sorry ass for a lesson."

His words are not nice, but his tone doesn't match them; it's soft and anxious.

He presses his cheek against mine, his breath tickling my ear. "Damn you, Maxwell, but you're doing something to me and I have no clue what to do about it." Blunt as always. Heero Yuy isn't fond of subtleties, they cost time and effort, something he doesn't usually spare for personal matters. Suits me fine 'cos I only wanna hug him close and get another taste of him, sod his stupidity before. Come to think about it, he probably doesn't know any better, and if he did, he couldn't help it anyway. Hell, I don't harbour grudges; I'm greater than that.

I cannot lift my arm, and I am pinned to the bed and motionless. "Plastercast," he mumbles, sensing my twitching. He must be on his knees by my bedside for his hand to hold mine so tightly and his dark head resting in the crook of my neck now. Heero Yuy on his knees for me, and his voice an irritated, soft drawl in my ear, "Just stay still, baka, and heal."

I'll do my level best, and then you wait.

**xxx**

I think I got a bit cross with the paramedics when they wanted to shear off Duo's braid to bandage his head. In the end they merely shaved the patch on his skull that needed stitches. I thought he might have joked around 'where there's a will, you'll find a fuckin' way too'. How true. I would not have struggled had it been my own hair; I am used to follow orders and submit to necessity.

Perhaps that is not always a good idea.

Wufei kindly offered to share lecture notes with me and jot down whatever important things come up in the seminar. I cannot concentrate and tend to spend more time in the sickbay than elsewhere these days. Given, I take the textbooks along, but they will sit on his nightstand unread while I watch him. Sedated, sleeping in a way that scares me for he is so utterly still, it resembles death.

He has taken a bad knock to the head and a few other things are broken, but it was a lucky escape, the medics told me, and he will mend. He is tough. His nights are unpleasant, when the sedative wears off somewhat to allow his body to come up for air and slowly return to life, but then his mind fills with nightmares again. It helps to hold his hand. No one will watch me, anyway, so I am fine.

Wufei has given me strange glances, and I wonder whether he can see things I am missing. There was no time to ask him though, so he just jumps into the breech as we always do for one another, and makes sure I do not miss out on the lessons. It might not be a bad thing that Trowa and Quatre are not with us for the time being; the chibi is too inquisitive and Trowa way too lucid for my liking. I prefer to figure things out for myself first.

Although they might just know what is going on because they have been together for a while. No, this is plain nonsense. It is different for me and Duo. We are team mates. He needs guidance, and it is my job to give it to him. That is all, right?

That is all.

**xxx**

They gave me crutches, and for once I feel like an idiot, hobbling about with splinted legs and some kind of corset round my chest. He's been doing my hair for the last coupla weeks 'cos I cannot wash it myself, and he was rather keen on seeing to it. Not that he has stopped bossing me about, or his teasing, or occasional flaring up at the mess in my corner. But he knows I have seen him worry 'bout me, and fair enough, he doesn't deny it.

"Hold still," he commands, pressing a hand on my shoulder firmly to make me sit back on my chair. He's gone to some trouble to re-arrange his desk. So now I can look out of the window at the park with its pond and meadows full of flowers and beautiful old trees that sway in the summer breeze. To entertain me while he is carefully raking his fingers through my damp tresses, trying to untangle them with as little tugging as possible. "Man, Duo, just for five minutes – hold still!"

He does sound unnerved now, his precious composure slipping, and he doesn't bother hidin' it. Thinkin' about it, he's thawed quite a bit recently. Methinks it's not my fidgeting though which makes him edgy, and that emboldens me to grope for his wrist. He pauses, then keeps straightening out my hair, a bit slower perhaps than before, quite content to have my fingers on his wrist travelling with his every motion.

He can be incredibly tender. Does he know that his hands betray what he's thinking, nah, feeling, behind this stoic face o'his? It makes me warm and woozy, so I close my eyes and let my head drop back.

It lands in his crotch. I'll be damned if he isn't hard.

He freezes, my hair between his fingers.

I have unhinged him. My mouth goes dry as I can only whisper, "Still wonderin' whatcha wanna do 'bout it all?" My reckless, stupid tongue.

Stony silence. Oh my.

He doesn't strangle me. He leans down, seeking and meeting my eyes with a dark, questioning gaze. "I don't like games."

**xxx**

Duo caught me out here. There is no point in pretending otherwise, and he knows. His head dips back before I can shift, his eyes fly open wide, and then a broad smile settles on his face. His gaze fills with light, his entire face brightens, his body shivers as he brings up his arms around my neck and...

Well, the baka does kiss me, his hair filling my hands, his head rubbing me where his touch sends streams of heat into me. More precisely, into my crotch. Even though he made me uneasy before, I did not think this could happen, I find it a tough job to be thinking at all right now, with him arching against me with a sensuality that shocks me because it is so... honest. "I'm not playin'," he breathes into my mouth.

He tastes of cigarettes and coffee, bitter and a bit sweet as well. I never kissed a bloke before, and now I do not either because it is him doing it. He must be having a deathwish. So why do I let him go on? His tongue dips into my mouth, hesitantly, prodding for more, gently, a silent question, and I half close my eyes. It seems answer enough for him, for he pulls me closer, down against him, and our lips lock, my hands clench in his hair and damn him does he make me sweat.

I have never been so blown. My groin hurts. I am so taut I could shatter. He smells good, of pine needles, of summer and heat, and a bit of desinfectant from his bandaged wounds. He feels good, his skinny form all hot and pliant, and he looks happy, worried and so very hungry. Am I doing this to him?

And may hell have his pretty butt because he breaks away, gently, and shoves me back, pressing the hairbrush firmly into my hand. "Please," he whispers, trying to catch his breath as he coyly lowers his head, offering me his pale neck and hunched shoulders. His way of saying, take your time, think about it, I want you madly but you need to want it too? Perhaps. He does not lie. Gods help me, but I hope that I am right here.

I straighten my back and try to level my breathing, to calm down enough to be able to finish his hair, to slow the mad rush of emotions that drown me to a stream I can swim along with. Or dive in and drown. In Duo Maxwell, resident baka, my team mate and pain in the ass. This could get so literal.

We stay silent, the soft sliding of the brush and the rustle of our clothes the only sounds in the warm stillness of our room. When I tie off his braid with an elastic and smooth it out over his back to contemplate my work, he reaches back and grabs my hand. "Thanks," he says, heaving himself up with my arm as support.

It is always a moment of tiny regret when I am done with his hair and have to let go. This time, I hold him a bit closer, a little longer than necessary before he sighs, smiles and says, "I wanna go for a walk. See ya later, yeah?"

So he has to do some thinking too, and as I watch him hobble out, I find myself praying fiercely that he might come to the right conclusions.

Just what are they?

**xxx**

I have fallen for the Perfect Soldier.

It couldn't have been worse, could it? We don't match. He grunts, I blabber, he is precise, I am slapdash, he is tidy, I'm a fuckin' mess. But we both wanna be on top, so to speak. We're both stubborn as hell though it shows in different ways. Like he doesn't wanna see what's good for him, and I cannot see why he won't admit it. He has been suffering miserably during the last few weeks, but here I can't help, he's got to figure it out for himself, come to terms, one way or another.

I'm dreading 'another'. I want him. Madly. With every fibre of myself, in every possible way, though I know he's going to hurt me 'cos he's so stuck up with everything, way too serious, completely incapable of enjoying anything without letting go.

I haven't learned to hold back, he hasn't learned to let go. Now what's worse? At least I'm having fun, most of the time. I go over the top, come crashin' down and try again. That way I feel alive at least, though it does get painful and occasionally, a bit much. I burn out, and that's real shitty, but it doesn't kill. So there, take the bad stuff with the good.

He can't. He's so afraid of getting bruised that he refuses to have fun. I'd be damned if I were willing to pay such a price for being left alone. It comes as a surprise to find that he's got no confidence in himself, that's why he's stonewalling everyone out and tries to prove himself to be the tough guy. I got lots; perhaps I can help him with this, but there's no fun without a flipside. And no, I don't want him to hurt, so how am I gonna sort this out?

I got no idea as yet.

**xxx**

Duo has healed. I can tell from the way he bounces about again, as though nothing at all had happened. Nothing. I wish, do I not? I lie awake at night, listening to his breathing, knowing he does not sleep either. I have learned that he keeps himself awake because he is afraid of his nightmares. I know my touch soothed him before. Perhaps he could sleep if I would touch him.

I would like that. See him drift off while I smooth out his hair around his shoulders, splaying it on the pillow and running my fingers through it. Pull the blanket back up when he tosses it off, and tuck him in. He needs someone to sort him out, and I happen to be around, ne?

Yeah, he has been on the streets, he is a survivor, he is no wuss, fine. I know that. My heart tells me something else. I would like to rip it out because it hurts for no reason. I am not sick, but I have been unable to conquer this weakness of mine. It has long hair and mad eyes with a silly grin.

He tries to act the same as always, but he knows I have learned to see through him alright. And so, in some rare moments of stillness, when the dinner dishes are cleared and we sit in silence in our room, me typing, he staring out of the window, he is himself. Smiling softly even when I look up and meet his dusky gaze, or handing me the hairbrush without a word and closing his eyes to let me do his braid.

If he were a girl, I would have to say I am in love.

But he is no girl. He is my team mate, we are both tiptoeing around what bothers us, and I still do not know how to handle this. For once, I wish he would take the lead from me.

**xxx**

Heero is not going to make the next move. We have few options, one of them is to do nothing. Agony, yet safe. The other is me doing something. But what? His shields are down, I know that though he is as calm and composed as ever. I know from the way he takes the hairbrush from me whenever I offer it and slides it through my hair with a gentleness that turns me into putty, or from his tone when he growls his orders at me. No more yelling, or teasing, or ratting me down.

I have to live up to this. So I try to learn the way he wants me to: going to class, being punctual, tidy up now and then. There's no denying that I am a mess, but I'm doing my best, right. Distract myself with whatever comes in handy, for example lie on my back in the meadow in the evening and counting the stars, or dissecting the weapons panel in Deathscythe. Anything, and all I see is him. It's driving me nuts.

What do folk do when they're in love? They sleep with one another. But he's a regular bloke, right? I don't care who I sleep with as long as I like them. This is different: it matters. And while I've never been shy, I worry now that it could all go wrong.

Well, someone's gotta do it. I'll kiss him, and see what happens.

**xxx END Chapter 2 xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Not At First Glance III (2x1)**

Author: LoveyouHateyou  
Fandom: Gundam Wing  
Rating: NC-15/M  
Pairings: DuoxHeero (2x1) - an odd one, because... well, you will see, but I maintain this is the right order.  
Warnings: Thoughts of happiness and angst. References to male/male sex.  
Disclaimer:I do not own them although I would like that. Especially Duo who is a survivor, and Heero in surrender mode. All rights with their original owners.  
Spoilers: None.

_Summary: Someone's gotta do it, and Heero won't be the one, ne?_

**xxx**

Duo has taken me for a walk. Really. Our day's chores are done, dinner got eaten, dishes tidied away – he did it, without prompting, and I knew something was up. He simply asked me whether I would like to come with him. What can I say, that I could not resist his smile, warm and without mockery, that I love the way his eyes shine at me, that I still have to figure out their colour because it keeps changing with the light, from deep grey to purplish blue...

All of this is true, but deep inside I know it is not the whole truth. It is a beautiful evening, the park is whispering in the light breeze that cools down the smouldering heat of the summer day, sleepy birdsong fading with the last vague light. The air is heavy with the heady smells of damp earth and wilting grass. In the morning, it will be laden with dew, he tells me, and if it is sunny, the meadows will glitter like myriads of diamonds. He blushes a bit at this, and his shoulders tense, ready for whatever scathing retort, but I have none. I am amazed and humbled at his ability to see the beauty of life. I have long lost this, or maybe I never learned to open my eyes to these things that have nothing to do with missions and war. Perhaps I need him to show me.

He has picked this time, for me. I know this from the way he gives me sideways glances, his smile deepening as he finds I am enjoying this, and a bit of relief showing in his eyes, too. Is he glad that I do not berate him about this as a waste of time, better to be used for studying?

Our steps crunch softly on the gravelled path, and I think I would like to walk on like this forever. It feels good to have him close, guarding my back in battle, filling our still room with the vibrancy of life and my existence with a purpose. He gives me the completeness I have been looking for without knowing it, the fullness that counters the vacancy of loss or victory in war, the meaning that has been lacking in everything I have done so far. Rules are my framework to live by if there is nothing else to keep me going, but they cannot fill my heart.

He can. He has done it, with such ease that it scares me cold. And I should not be drawn to him like this for it cannot work; he is my comrade-in-arms and not a girl waiting for me to return home. I am frightened of destroying what has become our friendship because I have come to realise that I need it. I am afraid of not being enough for him, of not doing him justice, of not knowing so many things he seems to know. Like making love instead of having sex.

No, I am not clueless, not innocent, and not afraid of the act. I had my share of watching and trying, sometimes nice, other times less so. Battle comfort, perhaps. My heart was never in it. This time, if we were to cross the line, it would be. Was this why I kept fighting him off for so long?

Now the struggle has ended. Pilot down: the Perfect Soldier is out cold.

My entire set of co-ordinates has shifted. I am lost, and I want him to show me the way. What kind of leader am I?

**xxx**

Heero likes this. Walking under the old trees, in the stillness of the evening; even I manage to keep my mouth shut most of the time. He has crossed his arms and lowered his gaze, dark bangs falling into his face so I cannot see his expression, but he wanders along anyway, and so I know he is enjoying it.

He even has let off his usual dress code – uniform shirt, trousers, boots – and is content to wear his tank top and sweatpants, with a pair of sandals to complement the look that shows off his muscular body and fluid motions in a way that sets my head spinning. He is unaware of the effect; he never realises, he would be mortified if he knew, and he would rather die than use it on purpose. He has this kind of innocence that makes him all the more alluring.

We reach the banks of the small lake in the centre of the park and he stills, tilting back his head to look up into the sky. Above the city skyline and the bowl of smog, the first stars gleam brightly on the dusky horizon. Still higher, the last shimmer of light fades away into the black stillness of space, eternal night, cold and silent. I need to clench my teeth to suppress their clatter; it's ridiculous how easily I get cold, and my old uniform jacket does not much to keep the chill out.

We stand there, watching the stars rise that even when we fly the suits seem so distant that they make my heart shrink. Nightfall comes chill and dank. His arms are bare. So I edge closer and lean against him, my heart leaping to my throat as we make contact. He is warm despite the coolness of the night.

He unfolds his arms and lets them fall by his side. My hand finds his as if by itself. For a breathless moment, I half expect him to shy away, to stalk off, leaving me behind. Instead, his fingers entwine with mine and squeeze them, hard, warm, and I can sense a shudder running through him.

He is scared. Of wanting this, of being defenceless, of living. But we cannot live by hiding behind our shields all the time; life means we get hurt now and then, and we will overcome hurt and battle on, live on, grow stronger and sometimes weaker, but we can win this, war or not. We are young now. Forgoing love would mean to bury ourselves alive. Loving and perhaps losing means agony but time can mellow the worst pain into bearable memories. He will learn all this if he lets me teach him, and I cannot spare him the pain that goes with it, but I can cushion him, be there for him, catch him when he is falling.

And be held when my strength fails me. I know he can hold me. I hope he'll want to.

Slowly, he turns to face me, his eyes glittering in the light of the stars, his face still, questioning, wondering. For a heartbeat, he holds my gaze, before closing his eyes in quiet, proud surrender

Trustful. Offering. Waiting.

And I know that he is mine.

**xxx**

Love means strength and need. Love has a name, a face, and a body. Duo helps me lay down on his jacket that he has spread on the damp grass by the lakeside, he tries to warm me with his bony frame despite shivering with cold himself, he kisses me with a tenderness that makes me want to cry. Whatever next... it frightens me no end.

When was the last time I knew the feeling of tears stinging my eyes? I cannot remember, but now they gather behind my closed lids and damn me if they do not sneak out beneath my lashes and trail down my cheeks. Why would I be crying now? I am happy. I am scared. But soldiers are not supposed to cry.

He is gracious, generous, endlessly patient, guiding me gently, searing passion restrained by love. He lets me have him because he is afraid of hurting me, but it is him leading, and that is fine by me. I can let myself fall, dig my hands into his unravelling braid, forget everything but him holding me, in his arms, inside his body, in his heart and soul.

I am loved.

He thumbs at my cheeks and whispers some silly little words of comfort, his lips brushing over my face, my eyes, my mouth while he is rocking me sweetly into him, his lanky body arching against me, his limbs enfolding me, his hands roaming over my flanks, my back, my face. He does not tire of caressing me, as though he could not believe it, as though he were holding something rare and precious and were afraid of breaking it.

He is sweet and hot and passionate. He gives himself without restraint, and I cannot help but lose myself in him in a haze of fire, sweeping through me in blazing waves until I can only sob and gasp and hear him whisper soothing nonsense into my ear while his hands weave eagerly through my hair. I feel as though I have cheated on him because I could not hold out longer, but he kisses me silent when I start choking out words of regret.

I want him. I want him to have me the way he let me have him; for once, I want to be the one giving. I have no words, so actions will have to do as always, and he accepts graciously, if a little surprised. 'Sure?' he gasps. Sure, Duo, love me for you have taken my soul already, and I do not even know how it could happen.

No, there is no pain. He is so gentle, takes me so slowly, I want more, want to be bruised, want to feel what he felt, but he will not be rushed. He kisses, caresses, takes his pleasure in sending me mad with longing, until I hardly realise that my hands clawing into his hair must hurt him, and my teeth leave black marks on his shoulder and neck. He is keening softly when he comes, his arms buckling, and sinks on top of me, panting and damp with sweat, his hair splaying over us like a cloak of feathers. I am reeling.

What have we done?

I will hurt now when he hurts, for we have become one.

Fear sinks icily into my heart. I have lost what makes the Perfect Soldier: my disdain, my fear of life. The closeness of Death does not soothe me any longer; I want to live, with him. But there is no future for such as us.

There is only now.

Because we are soldiers, and our business is death.

**xxx END xxx**


End file.
